


Horse Sense

by Miershooptier



Series: Pack Song [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Feelings, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier is not totally useless, M/M, Pining, Requited Unrequited Love, Roach is a good listener, Roach is in it a lot you guys, Sex, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22551265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miershooptier/pseuds/Miershooptier
Summary: Five times Jaskier had a conversation with Roach, and one time Roach had a conversation with Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Pack Song [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1659949
Comments: 135
Kudos: 2376
Collections: Finished Fics I Love, Geralt is Sorry, Math





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Witcher fic and I've only watched the TV show so far, so please forgive me if I get anything incredibly wrong.
> 
> All song lyrics are from the show, as is a little bit of dialogue from the show. I don't own any of it, I just think these two are adorable together.

Jaskier turned Filavandrel’s gift over and over in his hands, marveling at the fine Elven craftsmanship, his fingers itching to pluck the strings but not quite ready to dare. The lute was truly a thing of beauty and his mind was already awhirl with unfinished snippets of the ballads he would coax out of it. 

The Witcher was carefully running his hands over his horse, inspecting the chestnut mare inch by inch to make sure that she’d suffered no harm while he and the bard had been enjoying Elvish hospitality, such as it was. He didn’t exactly suspect the Elves of being inclined toward wanton cruelty – at least not to animals – but Roach was a Witcher’s horse, and humans had, at times, attempted to mistreat her because of it.

“How is the dear girl? Still hale and hearty, I hope?” Jaskier moved up to stand beside the Witcher, reaching out to pat Roach’s flank. His hand was seized in an iron grip, just on the near side of painful.

“Don’t touch Roach,” Geralt growled, his golden eyes flashing for the brief moment he glared in the bard’s direction.

“Right, yes, of course,” Jaskier squeaked, trying unsuccessfully to tug his hand away. “Silly of me to forget.”

“Hmm.” Geralt grunted and released him.

Jaskier shook out his hand, prudently stepping out of what he thought was arm’s reach (future travels with Geralt would teach him differently – the man had a bloody long reach and was lightning fast). “These fingers are my livelihood, you know. Rude man. Not that I blame _you,_ dear girl,” Jaskier assured Roach hurriedly. “Melitele knows what you’ve had to put up with. You are the noblest of steeds, to so stoically bear a man with such poor manners.”

“Bard,” Geralt rumbled in warning. He set his foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle, turning Roach to face the road back to Posada.

Jaskier grinned at him, slinging the strap of the lute over his shoulder and plucking out a few chords. The sound was even sweeter than he’d imagined it would be – this lute had a beautiful voice. Now to compose a ballad worthy of it.

He managed to keep pace with Geralt, who didn’t seem in any hurry to get back to collect the rest of his fee. As he hummed and strummed, he wondered idly if the Witcher’s reluctance was due to the reception he usually got as a result of his reputation, or if he felt any qualms about not strictly fulfilling the understood, if informal, terms of the contract. He suspected that it was the former. The thefts plaguing Posada would stop now, even if the thieves themselves remained alive. The job was done, coin was coin, the fine details didn’t matter.

Well. There might be something he could do about the Witcher’s reputation, at least.

“That’s not how it happened,” Geralt said gruffly, startling Jaskier out of his contemplation. “Where’s your newfound respect?”

Jaskier gave him a tight smile, thinking back to the lessons from one of his favorite masters at Oxenfurt, who had specialized in teaching history alongside the ballads, epics, and poetry of the times – paying particular attention to the discrepancies between them. 

“Respect doesn’t make history.” The bard turned and sang, putting the pieces of the ballad he’d just composed together for a first run-through, walking on a little ahead of Geralt and Roach.

The Witcher grunted after he finished with a final flourish. “You make me into a hero, the Sylvan into a devilish mastermind, and Filavandrel into a villain. He’s trying to save what’s left of his people, and the Sylvan was helping him. Helping _them._ Keeping them from starving.”

“You think I should sing the _truth,_ is that it, Witcher?” Jaskier asked, his tone light. He watched out of the corner of his eye for any signs that Geralt was preparing to dismount – he didn’t want another fist to the gut. He was still aching from the beating he took from the Elves.

“Why would you sing anything else?” 

Jaskier hummed, tilting his head slightly. “I should sing, to my fellow humans – the descendants of those who perpetrated the Great Cleansing – of Filavandrel and his weakened, vulnerable people? Of where the Elves are fleeing in order to survive? Of how they hope to build a future for themselves and perhaps one day reclaim what was theirs?”

Geralt’s face, if possible, soured even more, and he grunted, urging Roach into a trot so that they passed the bard. Jaskier coughed slightly on the dust they kicked up.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Even with having to stable Roach and give her a rubdown after their long ride, Geralt still beat Jaskier to the tavern to collect the rest of the money he’d been promised when he took the contract, and the atmosphere at the bar was decidedly unfriendly as the bard slipped inside the door. It was time for the evening meal, so the common room was much more crowded than it had been the day that he and Geralt had set off together. Most of the patrons were eyeing the tall, imposing figure with suspicion, and Jaskier didn’t like the way that those big fellows in the far corner were muttering to each other.

“I’m here for the coin. There will be no more thefts of your grain.” Geralt was speaking to the thin, gangly man who’d offered him the contract.

“And we’re to take your word for it, are we? _Butcher?”_ Sneered the barman, leaning into the conversation while absently scrubbing the bar top with a filthy rag.

Geralt’s shoulders stiffened in rage.

Jaskier took a deep breath and sculpted his face into a brilliant smile, pitching his voice so that it could be heard over the din. “Good people of Posada, the Witcher has returned victorious, your stores are safe once more! Gather ‘round, my friends, and I will tell you of the White Wolf’s bravery and heroism!”

And then he started to play, easily ignoring Geralt’s thunderous expression. 

_When a humble bard_

_Graced a ride-along_

_With Geralt of Rivia_

_Along came this song_

The bard’s sure feet carried him around the room in an inviting sort of dance that was not a dance, his fingers keeping the rhythm while his words soared overhead. He made it easy for them, gave them the refrain after drawing them in, and was thrilled when a few of them hesitantly started to join in, the rest of them stamping their feet or tapping their mugs on the table.

He timed it so that the last verse put him next to Geralt at the bar, singing almost directly into the barman’s face to keep the greasy man from running away as all eyes were on them. He almost shouted the line “Now pour him some ale!” and the crowd cheered, some raising their cups in support of the sentiment. 

Jaskier continued with the refrain, felt a surge of triumph when he heard the clink of coins falling at Geralt’s feet, and he again turned to the barman, singing “Toss a coin to your Witcher, O valley of plenty” very pointedly.

The barman scowled but the good cheer of the room was overwhelming, so he pulled a large mug out from under the counter and filled it with ale, pushing it toward Geralt. Jaskier knew from experience that it was horrid, sour stuff that looked like piss, but a free drink was a free drink.

It was easily the best-received song that Jaskier had ever played – of the ones he’d written himself, anyway. And after a few renditions of ‘Toss a Coin,’ there were plenty of requests for some of the older, more well-known ballads and jigs, and Jaskier was beginning to grow hoarse hours after the daylight had gone completely. He finished the last jig, bowed with a flourish, and blew kisses to the crowd as he made his way toward the corner in which Geralt had settled into an uninviting brood. He scooped up a few coins along the way – no mushy vegetables or stale bread this time.

He sank gratefully onto the bench across from the Witcher, setting his lute carefully down on the table. When he was sure that it was secure and safe from any spilled ale, he permitted himself a moment to close his eyes, rest his head in his hands, and catch his breath. He felt Geralt’s golden-eyed gaze on him, and he smiled lazily. 

“Got a little more heft to your purse, Wolf?” 

He opened his eyes when he heard a rumbled, “Hmm.” 

Geralt was watching him, not quite a stare but Jaskier was unable to even guess at what was going on behind those eyes. “More than expected,” the big man said finally, nodding his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement. 

One of the barmaids appeared at Jaskier’s elbow, setting a plate in front of him, along with a full mug and a bowl of apples for the table. Jaskier reached into his pocket for some of the coins he’d received after the night’s entertainment, but Geralt shook his head and waved the barmaid away.

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. 

Geralt squinted at him.

The bard shrugged and took a long drink of the ale before tucking in to the night’s meal, feeling as though he hadn’t eaten in days. That was very nearly true – he’d eaten short travel rations with Geralt as they were tracking the Sylvan, and the Elves had not had much to spare after Filavandrel had decided to let them go. 

_“Humble_ bard?” Geralt said suddenly.

Jaskier looked up in surprise, swallowing his mouthful of food quickly. _Three words or less._ Then he grinned. “Artistic license.”

“…White Wolf?”

The bard waved a hand vaguely over his own head, tugging slightly at his hair, then gestured at Geralt’s medallion. “I thought it would suit you.”

“Hmm.” Without another word – or without any words, really, because ‘hmm’ didn’t count as a word in any language Jaskier knew – the Witcher stood, heading up the stairs to the rooms.

 _More coin than expected indeed, if he could afford to get a room for the night,_ Jaskier thought, pulling a handkerchief out of his sleeve to wipe his mouth. He grabbed a couple of apples from the bowl on the table and then his lute, lovingly caressing the strings as he stepped outside the tavern.

It was late, too late for Jaskier to consider taking a room for himself. He’d been light on funds himself before tonight, and didn’t fancy spending his earnings quite yet. He wandered into the nearby stable. Stables and barns were often decent enough places to sleep, he knew, so long as there was enough straw and the gaps in the walls were narrow.

Roach was in one of the stalls near the front of the stable, and she flicked an ear in his direction when he grabbed a pitchfork and deposited a few forkfuls of straw on the floor next to one of her stall walls. He sat, leaning his back against the wood and making himself relatively comfortable. 

He jumped when he heard and felt a loud bang on the stall door, and looked up at Roach indignantly. “Don’t pretend you’re as ill-tempered as your master, dear girl.”

Roach blew at him dismissively.

“Or perhaps it’s because you know I have a treat and want to make sure I remember to give you your share, is that it?” Jaskier pulled a small knife from a sheath hidden in his boot and used it to carve a chunk out of one of the apples. He offered it to Roach, holding it out with a flat hand so she wouldn’t nip his fingers, and smiled when he felt her soft, whiskery lips take the morsel.

He cut up both of the apples, taking about half of the slices for himself, but generously offering Roach the apple cores, which she took greedily. 

“Do you know, Roach, I think you and I are friends now.” The bard licked a bit of juice from his fingers. “I don’t suppose it’s quite as easy to get into the Witcher’s good graces. Although…” He trailed off thoughtfully. “I once met a woman – well, bedded a woman, in fact – who claimed to have tamed a wolf by offering it scraps of bacon. But I suppose that would not be the same for this kind of wolf.”

Roach made no noise in reply, which Jaskier took as confirmation. Geralt didn’t seem like the kind of man to care much about the small pleasures in life. 

Feeling his eyes start to grow heavy, Jaskier curled onto his side, his lute tucked under his arm. He closed his eyes, letting the soft sounds of Roach and the other horses lull him to sleep.

When he woke in the morning, Roach’s stall was empty, but he found that someone had laid an old horse blanket over him as he slept.


	2. Chapter 2

“Ah, no, wait – hold on!” Jaskier said, spreading his arms to block Geralt’s path toward his room upstairs. He was careful to keep his distance, though. He wasn’t afraid that Geralt would hit him again – well, not _very_ afraid, at least. But the Witcher was covered from head to toe in blood, guts, and grime from killing a Selkimore _from the gods-damned inside_ , and Jaskier thought he’d never seen anyone looking so filthy. And that was including the memorable week in which he and Geralt had waded their way through a swamp full of drowners and one particularly nasty kikimore.

“Fuck off, bard,” Geralt growled, but Jaskier stood his ground.

“Look at yourself, you’re not fit to _bathe_ yet, Geralt.” He tried to sound reasonable. “I’ll bet you didn’t even ride back, did you? You wouldn’t want this stuff on your tack, let alone on poor Roach – is she even unsaddled yet? No wonder the alderman beat you back here. Come on, now, rinse some of this off outside, I’ll see to Roach, and then you can have a proper bath.”

Golden eyes glared fiercely at him, but Jaskier was getting better at gauging these looks. This was less murderous than the one Geralt had just given the barman after tasting the swill that passed for ale in this establishment, so Jaskier thought he was perhaps getting through to him.

 _“Hmm.”_ This one was more of a growl than a hum, but Geralt turned abruptly and walked briskly outside. Jaskier hurried after him.

“Not the trough!” The bard said, more sharply than he’d intended, and he shrank back when Geralt snarled at him. “You’d be lucky if the water didn’t poison the horses, Geralt, truly you look terrible. Look, there’s a rain barrel just there – you should use that instead. The newts won’t mind.”

Geralt scowled and stomped over to the rain barrel, barely pausing before just dunking his entire head underwater, submerging his shoulders almost all the way down to his elbows. Jaskier watched for a moment, making a mental note that even Selkimore guts couldn’t disguise the way Geralt’s bottom so perfectly filled out the seat of his breeches. He should work that into the song somehow.

Roach was inside a stall in what could generously be called a stable. Jaskier shivered when a gust of cold wind blew through, and was glad that he had a room for the night. Though he suspected a good portion of it might be going toward taming the utter mess that was Geralt’s hair. 

He’d been right, Roach was still saddled, but her tack was thankfully clear of any evidence of Geralt’s kill – except for a section of the reins, where he’d needed to hold on to lead her back. Humming to himself, Jaskier stroked the white blaze on Roach’s muzzle before unbuckling her bridle and slipping it off her head. He wasn’t much of a horseman, but a traveling bard doesn’t often have the luxury of refusing odd jobs, and occasionally he’d worked in stables to pay his way when the only tokens of appreciation he’d received for his songs were inedible scraps of food, thrown with force and accuracy.

“So I’ve asked him to accompany me to the ball,” he said, catching Roach up on his conversation with Geralt in the pub. He petted her fluffier winter coat as he talked. “Just in case Lord Arseface is there and happens to remember me. Really, how am I supposed to know when someone is married? Just come out and _ask_ them, like some kind of barbarian?”

Roach snorted and nosed at Jaskier’s pockets.

“Later,” he promised. “I don’t have any nibbles for you now, but after we get your master cleaned up and presentable, I’ll give you something on the way to the party. Gods, I’m going to have to find him something to _wear.”_

The mare’s soft nicker made him smile in return. “Don’t laugh, he can’t very well drape himself in monster guts to dine with the Queen.”

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

The bath water was cold by the time Geralt had rinsed the worst of the muck away in the rain barrel, but he used Igni rather than further delay his bath by letting Jaskier request more hot water from the innkeeper. The water was steaming when Geralt finished the sign, and Jaskier dumped a pitcher full of it over the Witcher’s head after he’d climbed in.

“Now, now, stop your boorish grunts of protest,” Jaskier chided, as Geralt scrubbed hard at his face with his hands. “It is one evening of bodyguarding your best friend in the whole wide world. How hard could it be?”

“I’m not your friend,” Geralt rumbled.

“Oh! I like that. Really, you usually just let _strangers_ rub chamomile over your lovely bottom?” The bard’s tone was cheerful in the face of Geralt’s glare. He filled what would otherwise be silence by chatting about the ball, given in honor of Princess Pavetta’s forthcoming betrothal, and went through a quick run-down of the guest list.

“And how many of those lords want to kill you?” 

Jaskier pretended to think on it. “You know, one stops keeping count after a while. But, as my mother always said, life is short, so love easily and love often.” He didn’t finish the last part of his mother’s saying. _But to love deeply and true, Dandelion, that comes but once or twice in a lifetime, if it comes at all._

Geralt snorted. “Was your mother a whore?”

“My father often called her so, and not fondly,” Jaskier said, smoothly turning his tight expression into a carefree smile when he turned to face Geralt and sprinkled bath salts in the water with a flourish. “She never wanted to marry him, so she took her pleasure where she could and refused to be shamed for it. Women of any class don’t often have the luxury of marrying for love. The princess included, I’d wager.”

The only reply he received in response was a grunt, but there was a thoughtful timbre to it this time.

“I won’t kill anyone,” Geralt said finally. “Not over the petty squabbles of men.”

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier pulled a stool up to the bath tub and started trying to loosen the leather tie holding Geralt’s hair back. “You never get involved. Except that you actually do, all of the time. Is this what happens when you get old?” He teased, trying to distract the Witcher as he was tugging at his white locks. “You get unbearably crochety and cantankerous? Actually, I’ve always wanted to know – do Witchers ever retire?”

“Yes. When they slow and get killed,” rumbled Geralt, a touch of bitterness in his tone.

“Come on,” Jaskier coaxed, half to the stubborn tangles and half to his friend. “You must want something for yourself once all of this…monster-hunting nonsense is over with.”

“I want nothing.” 

The reply was swift, and it took Jaskier’s breath away. _He wants nothing?_ What kind of a life was that? The best songs were about wanting, and sometimes having. Sometimes not. Wanting and having were two different things, after all. But to be _neither_ having nor wanting… He covered his silence by pouring some sweet-smelling oil in his palm to start working into Geralt’s hair.

“Well,” he said slowly. “Who knows. Maybe someone out there will want _you.”_

“I need no one. And the last thing that I want is someone needing me.”

“And yet,” Jaskier murmured, running his fingers through the silky wet strands for longer than was strictly necessary. “Here we are.”

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Jaskier was drunk. He was drunk on the spectacle of Pavetta and Duny’s literal whirlwind of a betrothal, on the sheer fucking romance of a dual handfasting, with both mother and daughter gaining their true desires. He was drunk on the drama. He was drunk on Destiny. But mostly, he was drunk on Cintran ale and a rather fine bottle of wine that had been pressed into his hands by the sweet, plump noblewoman who’d taken refuge in his arms during all the excitement.

He was a professional – he didn’t allow himself to get truly sloshed until after he’d played his heart out at the double wedding and collected his fee from the queen’s bursar. But now he was decidedly wobbly as he made his way back to the inn.

It was still dark outside, but the sky was brightening to the east, so it must have been close to dawn. Jaskier was almost at the inn’s door when he suddenly remembered the carrots in his pocket and took a hard right toward the stable.

“Roach,” he cried happily, stumbling toward her stall. “You would not _believe_ how difficult it was to find a carrot that was not positively boiled beyond recognition or flavor. I had to steal these from the royal kitchen, can you imagine? Do they taste better when they’re royal carrots? I don’t suppose you’ll be able to tell me.”

Roach delicately lipped the carrots from Jaskier’s hand, and he watched her closely as she munched on them. “At least as good as normal carrots,” he decided, then slipped out of the stable and made his way into the inn. 

The common room was empty except for a solitary figure sitting in a chair in front of the fire. 

“Thought you only did that in dark corners, but I like the ambience of the firelight, too. Dramatic. Goes with your eyes.” Jaskier wobbled closer to the hearth.

Geralt grunted.

“Tonight was song-worthy,” Jaskier said, placing a hand on the Witcher’s shoulder to steady himself. “As were you, my friend. Like something out of a fairy tale.”

“Fairy tales are full of monsters,” Geralt mused, and Jaskier’s tipsy heart cracked a little.

“No, no – fairy tales are full of – of…let me gather my thoughts, I fear I may have drank them.”

“Bard.” This came out of a growl. “Your thoughts are as unwelcome as you are.”

“Of _this,”_ Jaskier said, snapping his fingers triumphantly, and let himself fall forward into Geralt’s lap. He cupped the Witcher’s face with both hands and kissed him softly, only fuzzily aware of what he must taste like after a full night of carousing. Something nagged at him, pulling urgently at the back of his mind until he had a sudden and unpleasant realization.

He was _kissing_ Geralt. He was kissing a man who claimed adamantly that they weren’t even friends, who killed monsters _from the inside out,_ they were _kissing_ and – oh, _gods!_ – he didn’t even know if Geralt was inclined toward men at _all –_

Jaskier froze and tried to pull back, but strong hands were gripping his upper arms and Geralt was leaning forward and he was crushing their mouths together and for a moment everything between them was heat and urgency and _need –_

And then Jaskier was dumped on his arse in front of the hearth as Geralt stood abruptly, looking down at him with an unreadable expression before he turned on his heel and went upstairs.

“Sorry,” Jaskier whispered, possibly too quietly for even Witcher ears to hear. “I’m sorry.”

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

The night _had_ been song-worthy, Jaskier’s drunken regrets aside, and he composed a truly magnificent ballad honoring the love story of Princess Pavetta and Duny the Hedge-knight. He’d spent a year or two working on it, wanting it to be perfect.

Then news reached him, of a ship going down with all souls, of a tiny princess left to be raised by her Lioness of a grandmother, and Jaskier carefully tore out and burned all of the ballad’s pages from his notebook, and never sang it again.


	3. Chapter 3

“Stay _here,”_ Geralt said firmly, pinning Jaskier with a golden glare. “Roach, you’re in charge.”

“Oi!” Jaskier barked indignantly, but Geralt was already downing a potion, shuddering slightly as his eyes went fully black. The Witcher strode off into the skeletal trees, intent on tracking down the pack of Barghests that had been troubling the local village.

Jaskier scowled after him and kicked a clump of dirt petulantly. Roach gave him a flat, unimpressed stare.

“Don’t look at me like that.” The bard sighed. “He’s probably right – of the two of us, you’re likely the more sensible one.”

Roach flicked her tail, shuffling her hooves.

“He hasn’t said anything about it,” Jaskier said, defensively. “And what would be the point in reminding him? It’s clear that he’d rather forget anything happened, and he could squash me like a bug if he felt like it. He might overlook the first offense but I doubt he’d tolerate me bringing it up.”

Both horse and bard went completely still as an inhuman howl drifted through the air, sending chills down Jaskier’s spine and causing Roach’s ears to swivel back and forth in an attempt to identify where it came from. Unconsciously they moved closer together.

“How near was that, do you think?” Jaskier said quietly. They waited in silence for a few minutes, straining to hear any sounds of beasts creeping through the bracken, watching for any sign of movement. 

“Can’t see anything from here,” Jaskier grumbled, but he kept his voice low. He looked around. “Might be able to spot something from up there, though.” He gestured to a tree close by, a huge, ancient oak with sturdy branches.

Roach eyed him suspiciously and blew out a sharp breath of air.

“It will be fine, it’s not as though I’m going further in – ow, _Roach!”_ Jaskier gasped, staying very still. One of Roach’s front hooves was placed over his left foot. She wasn’t putting any of her considerable weight on it, but the implication was very clear that she would not hesitate to do so.

“That’s really unfair, you know, you have four feet and I’ve only got the two,” Jaskier argued, trying to gently shove her away. “How am I supposed to run away if you crush one of them?” Eventually she grudgingly yielded to the firm press of his hands and removed her hoof, and he backed away from her. 

“Can Barghests climb trees? Probably not, right? They’re like dogs – big, nasty, spectral dogs, true, but dogs don’t generally climb trees.” 

A derisive snort and hoof stomp made him roll his eyes. “Roach, you are a _horse._ What do you know of tree-climbing?”

Another hair-raising howl split the air, and Jaskier determinedly adjusted the strap and slid his lute so that it was situated on his back instead of in front of him. “Stay here, dear girl. Or don’t, if that’s what the circumstances dictate. I’ll be back in a moment.”

The bard easily swung himself onto the lowest branch of the tree and started to climb, testing each branch before putting his weight on it. He wasn’t intending to climb to the top, just high enough so that he might be able to get a glimpse of what was going on. Melitele knew that he wasn’t going to get many details out of Geralt when he returned. 

Jaskier shivered as he climbed, more exposed to the wind the higher he went. He caught a flash of blue light out of the corner of his eye – it looked like Geralt had used Aard on the Barghests. He could hear snatches of the noise of the battle, now, too. A medley of snarls, roars and growls, and even Jaskier was hard pressed to tell the difference between Geralt’s growl and those of the beasts he was fighting. He glanced down to reassure himself that Roach was still safe and close by, unbothered by height of the tree. He’d climbed all manner of things as a child, and though he acted the fool it did actually take some skill to dance and play and sing all at the same time. He was actually surprisingly graceful – he’d even studied a little tumbling at Oxenfurt. 

The sudden silence was deafening, and the bard jerked his head up, peering intently toward where he’d seen the blue light. Was the battle over? It seemed so, but even Jaskier’s brief acquaintance with the life of a Witcher had taught him that nasty things that one _thinks_ are dead often have one last lunge in them. 

“Jaskier!” The Witcher stalked back into the small clearing. “Where the fuck did you go?”

“Ah,” Jaskier cleared his throat. “Wanted to get a better vantage, Geralt.”

Geralt looked up at him, his eyes still black from the potion he’d taken. “Not one of your better ideas, bard.”

“That’s me, just full of ideas, positively overflowing with them. They can’t all be amazing, though I do my best,” Jaskier rambled, carefully feeling around with his foot so that he could begin his descent. “Do Barghests climb trees?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.” Jaskier paused and considered this. “My apologies, Roach, you were right. Are _you_ all right?” He called down to Geralt, shifting his grip as he gingerly rested his weight on a lower branch.

“Barghests,” Geralt said dismissively. “There were only five.”

“Silver sword and Aard?” 

“Yes.”

“Excellent, I’ll make a note –“ The branch under Jaskier’s feet chose that moment to crack and tilt downward, catching him off guard, and he slipped. His fall was stopped abruptly through a combination of his lute strap catching on a protruding branch, and a lucky grip with his right hand when he flung it out to catch himself. _“Ow.”_

“Jaskier.” Geralt growled. “Stop fucking around and get down.”

“Right now I’m trying to stop that from happening _too_ quickly, my dear Witcher. Did you know that it’s rather dark?” The strap was painfully tight against Jaskier’s chest and restricted his movement. Damn it, he was going to have to remove it.

“Hmm. I’ll climb up and get you, then.”

“Geralt, no! You’re much heavier than I am.”

There was a slightly offended silence.

“I didn’t mean that quite how it sounded,” Jaskier said apologetically. “Just, the branches don’t seem very, um, sound – I need to…drop you my lute, Geralt, and you must swear by all that is holy that you _will_ catch it.”

“Jaskier –“

“Very gently,” Jaskier said sternly, shifting the strap over his head and holding it out behind him so that it would be clear of any branches. “Are you ready?”

“Just drop the fucking lute, Jaskier.”

With a silent apology, Jaskier dropped the lute that Filavandrel had given him and hoped that Geralt wasn’t quite enough of a bastard to let it hit the ground on purpose. There was a soft, slightly musical thump.

“Did you catch it?”

“Yes, bard. Now get down.”

“You know, for someone who’s lived as long as you have, you’re awfully short on pat– “ The branch that Jaskier was bracing against with his right hand suddenly snapped, and he lost his balance, falling backward and desperately flailing for another hold, any hold, but it was no use. His head collided with a branch on his way down and he didn’t even feel it when he hit the ground.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

He woke to throbbing pain, sharp enough to convince him that he wasn’t dead, at least. Death would be more peaceful than this, he expected, and if that weren’t the case then he had strong words for any gods in earshot. He wasn’t sure that he was quite ready to open his eyes, though.

“Where’s m’lute?” Jaskier slurred, shifting a little before he felt a stab of pain in his left side, and he couldn’t help but let out a groan.

“Idiot bard,” came a growl, but the hands that tucked the instrument under his right arm were gentle. “What’s a bit of wood and string compared to your own damn hide? You’ve been out for hours and that’s the first thing you ask about?”

“He didn’t mean it, sweetheart,” mumbled Jaskier, patting the lute clumsily. “Pay no attention to the grouchy Witcher.” He risked opening his eyes and immediately regretted it. Even the dim firelight was too much, and he was suddenly hit with a wave of nausea. He had the presence of mind to shift his lute down and away before rolling onto his less painful side and vomiting up the meager contents of his stomach. He could only hope that he wasn’t being sick on any of Geralt’s things, but the act of retching made it feel as though someone were twisting a knife in the side of his chest and thought that at least if Geralt killed him he wouldn’t have to deal with the pain anymore.

“Are you done?” Geralt asked gruffly when Jaskier could do nothing more than pant shallowly.

“Gods, I hope so.”

Again, the Witcher’s hands were gentle as he settled Jaskier flat on his back. The bard flinched when he felt a damp rag on his face, but then tried to be still when he realized that Geralt was just trying to clean him up. Every breath was painful, which bloomed into agony if he tried to fill his lungs completely.

“Deep breaths, bard,” rumbled Geralt, as though he could read Jaskier’s mind – and wasn’t _that_ a thought.

“I can’t,” he whimpered. “Hurts.”

“Yeah, broken ribs are a bitch. But if you don’t breathe as deep as you can, you’ll get an infection in your lungs, and that won’t make that yowling you call singing sound any better.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Jaskier gasped, taking an experimental breath. His ribs twinged sharply, making him cough reflexively, and then he couldn’t _stop_ coughing, the movement of his body aggravating his ribs even further until he nearly passed out from the pain.

“Hmm.” Geralt was displeased. He got up and Jaskier heard the clinking of glass bottles as he rummaged around in his saddlebags. 

“What’s that?” Jaskier asked wearily, when Geralt knelt beside him again. “Poison? To put me out of my misery? Or yours?”

“It’s…sort of for healing, and brewed specifically for Witchers,” Geralt grunted. “Too much of it would be toxic for a human.”

“So…poison.”

 _“Jaskier.”_ Geralt’s voice was exasperated. He cradled the back of Jaskier’s head in one of his large hands and tipped a small amount of the pale blue liquid down his throat, and Jaskier tried not to imagine other circumstances in which Geralt could use those hands to arrange his body to his liking.

It felt…weird. Strange and kind of floaty, as though Jaskier weren’t really attached to his body anymore. Was he dying? It wasn’t bad, if so. There were worse ways to die. He breathed deeply, then sighed. There was a vague feeling of pressure, a slight tug at his side, but it felt like it was happening far away and had nothing to do with him.

“How do you feel?”

Jaskier tilted his head slightly. Or at least, he thought he did. Geralt’s face came more into view, anyway. “You have beautiful eyes. Like fire. No! Like…like sunrise.”

Those beautiful eyes squinted at him, then at the small bottle. If Jaskier didn’t know better he’d have thought those golden eyes were concerned. “I gave you less than half of what I would take myself.”

“Ah well, that’s all right then, because I’m less than half the man you are.” Jaskier smiled. 

“So you’re feeling better?”

“Mmm…I’ll let you know as soon as I remember where my body is. Gods, what does this stuff do to _you,_ if you take more than this? If I had toes I bet they’d be tingling something fierce.” Jaskier hummed a little bit of the song he’d been working on. It sounded _amazing._ He chose to attribute that to his own talent rather than any effect that the potion was having on his perception.

“Does nothing ever silence you?” Geralt rumbled, but it wasn’t harsh. There was something almost…fond?...about his tone.

“Very little. Can you think of any rhymes for ‘bruxa’?” 

“Hmm. No.”

“Neither can I,” Jaskier sighed. “Not good ones, at any rate. Really inconsiderate of you, going after hard-to-rhyme monsters. Metaphor can only do so much, you know. _You,_ though, you’re easy.” Jaskier felt a detached sort of horror building inside him as his mouth continued working without heeding any input from his brain. “Stature, features, bearing, heroic deeds – that nobility that you possess but try to hide from everyone you meet. So easy to sing about.”

“Am I.”

“Oh yes. What did you say was in that potion? Is it supposed to loosen your tongue or is that just a side effect?”

Geralt snorted. “You don’t need any help in letting your mouth run away with you, Jaskier.”

“No, no, of course you’re right, you’ve been on the receiving end of that yourself –“ With an effort, Jaskier was _finally_ able to clamp his lips firmly shut, and he closed his eyes for good measure. He was starting to wish Geralt _had_ poisoned him.

He was surprised to hear a low chuckle. “Get some sleep, bard.”

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Geralt woke him several times during the night, saying that it was to make sure that he _could_ wake up after the blow to the head he’d taken. Jaskier was grumpy about it but it was never hard to fall asleep again. It was a strange sound that woke him just after dawn, though. 

It was singing. A deep, warm bass that Jaskier could feel resonating through his bones, and it was that and not the chill morning air that made him shiver. He didn’t recognize the specific tune but he did know the style – from the high mountains in the north, five, perhaps six generations back. Geralt wasn’t even singing words, it was just the melody, slightly melancholy in a minor key

Jaskier had never heard Geralt sing before – he hadn’t even known the Witcher knew _how_ to sing. As often as Jaskier had played and sang when they’d camped in the forest or in the common rooms at the inns and taverns along the way, he’d never known Geralt to so much as hum along. Even when he whistled it was only to call Roach or to get someone’s attention. He’d never carried a _tune._

He didn’t say anything when Geralt noticed he was awake and stopped, though he mourned the loss of the music. Neither of them said much as Geralt packed up camp, Jaskier moving stiffly and very carefully as he first sat up, then got to his feet and took a few steps to gauge how he was feeling. Better, he decided, but not healed, and it would be a while yet before he’d be comfortable taking a deep breath.

Geralt secured Jaskier’s lute and pack to Roach along with his own saddlebags, and before Jaskier could even open his mouth to comment, Geralt had grasped him by the hips and lifted him easily into the saddle. The Witcher swung up behind him and clicked his tongue, starting Roach on the road back towards the village.

If Geralt minded the way that Jaskier eventually relaxed and leaned tentatively back against his chest for support, he didn’t say so.


	4. Chapter 4

“Jaskier, what the fuck are you doing?!”

The bard rose up on his toes so that he could peek over Roach’s neck, and met a pair of furious amber eyes. He involuntarily took a small step back, but refused to retreat any further. He rolled his eyes.

“They’re called _flowers,_ Geralt.”

“And what are you doing putting those in my horse’s mane?” Geralt’s face was drawn down in a glower, and his fists were clenched tight. 

“My dear Roach is a horse not only of substance, but of style,” Jaskier said loftily. “It makes her look pretty, Geralt –“ Roach snorted indignantly. _“Prettier,_ Geralt, and I’m _bored.”_

“I can’t start the hunt until after sundown, bard. And you are _not_ coming with me.”

“It’s either this or I start singing, Geralt. I’ll take them out later, when they start to wilt. They’re not doing any harm. Might even do something to soften _your_ image, I’m happy to braid some flowers into your hair, too.”

Geralt bared his teeth at him. 

“Or not,” Jaskier said smoothly. “As you please. Just let me do something, Geralt. This way at least you know I’m not getting into anything else.”

“Hmm.” Geralt watched him work for a moment, then shook his head slightly and went to sit on the old log by their fire. He rummaged through his bag for a whetstone and started to sharpen his steel sword. 

Jaskier grimaced and tried to tune out the sound of scraping metal while he worked, deftly combing through the coarse strands of Roach’s mane before twisting sections into small, tight braids, securing them with small lengths of thread from his sewing kit. The mare bore the attention placidly – Jaskier might even hazard a guess that she was enjoying it, since he was giving her some good scratches in between finishing a braid and bending down to pull flowers from the pile at his feet. 

When he was finished, he stepped back to admire the effect. Wildflowers of many colors, but primarily white and yellow, adorned Roach’s mane from poll to withers, and everything stayed in place even after she blew out a breath and shook her head vigorously. 

“My dear girl, you look marvelous,” Jaskier said with a smile. “It was very good of you to let me, and surely no beast has ever been run down by a steed so beautiful as you.”

Roach nudged him affectionately, and he scratched under her chin, one of her favorite spots.

When night fell, Geralt walked around his horse several times, scrutinizing Jaskier’s work.

“Hmm,” was all he said, before he mounted up and rode off into the darkness.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Jaskier kept the fire high. He needed the light so that he could read through his notebook, going over the pages dedicated to his latest composition over and over. It was almost there, he could feel it – but it wasn’t quite coming together the way that he knew that it should. He fumbled the tune out on his lute, but softly, unable to forget that he was alone in woods known to contain a wyvern that had gained a taste for human flesh, at the very least, and he had no desire to draw any unwanted attention to himself. 

The sound of hoofbeats steadily approaching eased something in his chest that he hadn’t realized had been wound tight, but he didn’t look up from his notebook, where he was busily scratching out the word ‘desiring’ and changing it to ‘wanting.’ Sometimes simplicity was more elegant, and anyway, songs tended to catch on more widely when they were easier for anyone to sing. 

“If you brought back the head this time could you at least leave it outside the light of the fire?” Jaskier called. “When it comes to rolling over in the night and finding yourself face to face with a severed monster head, once is more than enough.” 

Geralt didn’t answer, not even a “Hmm” or a growl of annoyance, which wasn’t like him. Jaskier looked up to see Roach standing a few feet away, winded, sides heaving, and white showing around her eyes. 

There was no sign of Geralt.

“Roach?” Jaskier stood carefully, not wanting to spook the mare more than she already was. “Dear girl, what are you doing here without your master?”

Of course she couldn’t reply with more than a nicker, high and edged with panic, but Jaskier was already moving slowly and deliberately toward her, until he had a gentle grip on her reins. 

“The hunt – something went wrong, didn’t it?” Jaskier worried at his lower lip with his teeth, starting to feel a little panicked himself. 

There was no question that he was going after Geralt, that was already settled. Jaskier had no thoughts of doing anything else. It was the details that were giving him pause. It was well past nightfall and the moon was just a slim crescent in the sky – he would be riding into near total darkness without the benefit of Witcher night vision. The wyvern was still out there and likely still alive, and anyway Jaskier had no idea where he needed to go. He could only hope that Roach would lead him there.

He had nothing useful he could bring with him, except one of the waterskins, which he quickly slung over the saddle horn. After a moment’s thought, he also shrugged out of his doublet, which was already unbuttoned anyway. The sleeves were a little tight in the shoulders and while that was fine for playing the lute, he didn’t want anything to restrict his movement in these circumstances. 

“I know this is unusual, dear girl, but needs must and all that,” Jaskier whispered, stroking Roach’s neck to calm her a little before he awkwardly climbed into the saddle. He wasn’t a completely inexperienced horseman, but in general he traveled on foot and it had been a while since he’d ridden by himself. The stirrups were set for someone of Geralt’s height, and he hadn’t realized how much difference just a couple of inches would make in that regard. There was no time to adjust them, and anyway he didn’t want to. Geralt would be furious with him if he messed up his tack. He held the reins very loosely, more to keep them from trailing on the ground than to steer – after all, Roach was the only one of them who knew where to go.

He clicked his tongue in imitation of the way that Geralt always did, and Roach perked her ears up and turned, heading in the same direction as she had with Geralt only hours earlier. His heart pounded harder the further away from the fire they went, as the darkness closed in around him and he lost any sense of where they were going. _Fuck._ Roach made it back to the camp on her own, she would have to do it again once they found Geralt.

Roach followed the road for a while before turning off to the left, and Jaskier had to plaster himself against her neck as she passed under low tree branches. He suddenly imagined Geralt’s swords getting stuck on these very same branches while the Witcher cursed and untangled himself, and it almost caused him to laugh out loud, but he managed to keep quiet. He knew it was the adrenaline enhancing everything – all of the normal forest sounds were louder, and he jerked his head around whenever he thought he saw movement.

It wasn’t long before they heard a drawn-out, wailing screech, and Jaskier tensed, furtively glancing up at the sky. The trees were likely too dense for the wyvern to attack from above, as they preferred, but he still wanted to know where it was. He saw nothing, however, and though Roach’s ears were set firmly back, she didn’t stop. 

They came upon a small clearing, and Jaskier could just make out a large, thrashing shape with leathery wings. There was another terrible screech, and he reached for the knife in his boot. It was all he had, though it was laughable to think of using it on something like a wyvern. There was something odd about the creature, though – it wasn’t coming toward them at all, nor was it retreating. Jaskier pulled back on the reins, bringing Roach to a halt, and he whispered to her about what a brave horse she was – certainly braver than him.

One of the wyvern’s wings lifted as it struggled, and Jaskier could see a figure lying motionless on the ground behind it.

_Geralt._

The bard dismounted quickly, but he had absolutely no fucking idea what to do. His mind flailed a bit, and then latched onto the notion that perhaps he should get a closer look to better understand what he was dealing with. He gave the wyvern a wide berth, staying at the edge of the clearing until he could see the reason why it wasn’t moving to attack or flee. Geralt’s steel sword had it pinned, right at the base of an enormous tree. Jaskier remembered seeing something similar in an apothecary’s stall years ago – a whole tray of insects, dead and pinned neatly for display. Geralt’s sword had obviously missed the wyvern’s heart, though, and here it was, flapping its wings and growing weaker as it struggled to free itself. Jaskier couldn’t help but feel a swell of pity for it. It had killed livestock, humans, and possibly a Witcher – _his_ Witcher – but nothing deserved to suffer like this.

He got a better view of Geralt as he circled behind the wyvern and the tree – there was a dark stain on the ground beneath Geralt’s left leg, and the venomous tip of the wyvern’s tail was lying a few feet away, neatly severed. Jaskier frowned. He remembered Geralt taking a potion for resistance to venom just before leaving for the hunt, along with the one that made his eyes go black. 

There was just room enough for him to get to the Witcher without coming into range of the wyvern’s flapping wings and snake-like neck. He shook Geralt’s shoulder gently.

“Geralt? Geralt. Wake up, damn you – if you’ve gotten yourself killed I will never speak to you again.”

There was no response, so Jaskier fumbled around in the dark until he could place his hand in front of Geralt’s nose and mouth. He could just feel soft, infrequent puffs of air on his skin. He breathed out a sigh of partial relief, and even that faded away quickly as he realized that the next challenge was to somehow get Geralt back to the camp.

The wyvern thumped its damaged tail and screeched again.

Oh yes. And _that._

There was no way that he could drag Geralt all the way around the edge of the clearing – the Witcher was fully kitted out in his armor, which _apparently_ couldn’t even prevent venomous spikes from penetrating his legs, so gods above, what was the _point_ of the heavy mess – and he wasn’t going to try to bring Roach any closer. At worst she would get hurt, at best she might spook and bolt, and then they’d be truly fucked.

Jaskier closed his eyes briefly, trying to work himself up to what had to be done. He stood, shakily, and pulled Geralt’s silver sword from the scabbard on his back. The wyvern’s eyes were on him, and it let out a screech that sounded more pitiful than fearsome. 

Any grand visions of him striding in and cleaving the wyvern’s head from its body in one stroke were quickly dispelled by the way the creature snapped its head forward when he took a step closer, its teeth clicking when they closed on empty air. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier muttered, and backed away. He circled around the tree, approaching the wyvern from behind. There was still the tail to consider, but Geralt had already removed the spikes, so the most he had to worry about was taking a blow. He hoped, anyway.

The wyvern did manage to take his feet out from under him with a hard swipe of its tail, and it was a wonder he didn’t hurt himself with the silver sword as he fell. But as he tumbled and rolled, he found he was almost under one of the wyvern’s wings. When the wing lifted he took the sword and thrust it into the ribcage beneath.

He would never forget the way it screamed.

It screamed as it died, but it was a far quicker death than it would have had otherwise. Still, he felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and called himself a fool for it. But the truth was that he hated killing things. He’d had to kill animals to eat, he’d even killed a man once in self-defense, but he’d never become accustomed to it.

Jaskier let out a weary sigh and then pulled the blade free. He laid it on the ground and then straddled the dead wyvern’s back, trying to remove Geralt’s steel sword, gripping it by the cross guard, but it was stuck firmly in the base of the old tree and he quickly gave up. No wonder the wyvern hadn’t been able to break free. Geralt could come get his own damn sword when he was up and walking again. Jaskier didn’t allow himself to entertain any other possibilities.

Roach came near of her own accord after the wyvern’s body had gone motionless, and Jaskier led her over to where her master lay. He looked at Geralt’s still form, white hair shining in the scant moonlight, then up at the saddle, and then back down to Geralt again.

“Roach,” Jaskier whined, waving his hands helplessly. “Help.”

The mare snorted, and then to Jaskier’s astonishment she leaned forward and knelt, gingerly lowering herself down so that she was positioned next to Geralt. 

“Right,” the bard said, blinking. “Give me just a moment.”

It took a little more than a moment for Jaskier to divest Geralt of his harness and double-scabbard and sling them over his own back. And still another moment to heave Geralt over the saddle, and he wasn’t at all sure that the Witcher wouldn’t just fall off as soon as Roach stood, but he took a firm grip on Geralt’s belt and shoulder and together they managed to avert disaster. 

Roach carefully led the way back to camp, Jaskier stumbling at her side because he was keeping a hand on Geralt’s back. This way he would be able to tell if the Witcher were going to slip one way or the other, but it made for difficult walking until they made it back to the road. 

The fire at their camp had died down, and Jaskier left Geralt in the saddle as he built it back up. He decided to combine their bedrolls, to provide a little more cushioning when Jaskier tugged Geralt down in a more or less controlled fall onto the blankets. 

“I know you’re tired,” Jaskier murmured to Roach. “I am, too. But I’ve got to take care of him before I take care of you. You are the best and most patient horse I have ever known.” 

The array of glass vials in Geralt’s potion bag was daunting. 

“I don’t suppose,” the bard said sarcastically as he lifted one after the other to examine them in the fire light. “That it ever occurred to you that it might be useful to _label_ these damn things, at the very least to ensure that you don’t swallow something unexpectedly nasty by mistake. Let alone to make things easier on your faithful companions when they have to drag your arse halfway across the country in the middle of the night. No, of course not, why should you? You can do everything yourself, you don’t need anyone’s help, ever.”

Jaskier’s eyes lit up when he found a small vial of a familiar-looking light blue potion. “Ah-ha!” He crowed, and shifted so that he was kneeling by Geralt’s head. He indulged himself in running his fingers through snowy white hair before slipping his forearm under Geralt’s neck, cradling him while he tipped the contents of the vial down the Witcher’s throat.

Gloves. Armor. Boots. Jaskier methodically stripped the items, checking Geralt for other wounds as he went. Finally there was nothing for it but for him to remove Geralt’s breeches, which was certainly not how he would have preferred this to go in all the times he’d imagined doing so. But the puncture wound in the meaty part of the Witcher’s thigh needed to be cleaned and bandaged, and he couldn’t very well do that without baring the leg.

Geralt stirred a little when Jaskier first pressed a damp cloth to the wound, but he quieted when the bard shushed him. The hole in the Witcher’s leg was deep, and Jaskier did his best to flush it out with water. He only bandaged it, not sure if a wound like that should be stitched. He checked Geralt’s eyes by peeling back one of his eyelids – they were back to their normal gold color.

Jaskier allowed himself a breath or two, sitting back on his heels before staggering to his feet to see to Roach. Her coat was rough with dried sweat and she definitely deserved a much more thorough grooming than the one he gave her, but it was dark and he was so, so tired. She seemed happy enough to have the saddle and bridle off, anyway, and Jaskier didn’t bother to secure her lead line after slipping a halter over her head. She wouldn’t wander off, and there was some grass nearby that she could graze.

“Bard.” 

“Geralt!” Jaskier turned, feeling relief flood through him. He stumbled over to kneel next to the Witcher. “How are you feeling?”

“Should feel worse than this,” Geralt grunted.

“I gave you some blue stuff.”

“Hmm.”

“I wasn’t sure what else to do for you,” Jaskier confessed. 

“Should probably take another dose of Golden Oriole.” Geralt winced as he made to sit up.

 _“No.”_ Jaskier firmly pressed him down. “Tell me what to look for, or I’ll bring the whole mess over here and let you look at it. But you’re staying put.”

Geralt growled. “Jaskier.”

“I mean it, Wolf. If you don’t stay down, Melitele help me, I will grab my lute and _sit_ on you. I’ll recite the longest epic I know and you will just have to lie there and take it.”

“How long –?”

“Thirteen hours to do it properly,” Jaskier said grimly. “It’s ostensibly about a goatherd who falls in love with a shepherdess but it’s really an allegory for the hundred-year conflict between Kaedwen and Temeria. There is _yodeling.”_

Geralt considered this, eyes wide as he tried to imagine it, and shuddered. “Bring me the bag.”

Jaskier did as he asked, fidgeting while Geralt sifted through the bottles and fished out something that gleamed red in the fading firelight. The Witcher downed the whole thing.

“For the venom?”

Geralt grimaced at the taste. “Yes. The wyvern was gravid, they produce about three times the venom when they’re about to lay a clutch of eggs. Helps with hunting and defense.” He shifted his golden gaze to Jaskier. “How –?”

“Roach,” Jaskier said quickly. “She came and fetched me. But I couldn’t bring her close until…until it was dead.”

“You fought the wyvern?” Geralt was surprised.

The chuckle that escaped the bard held no humor. “Fought, no, it could barely defend itself. I killed it with your silver sword. It would have died eventually, your other blade is still stuck right through it.”

“Hmm.”

“You should get some sleep.” Jaskier looked down, unsure what to make of Geralt’s expression. 

“As should you,” Geralt said.

“Right, well, I’ll just –“ Jaskier yelped when Geralt seized his wrist and tugged him down to lay on the bedrolls next to him.

“You’re not sleeping in the dirt,” the Witcher growled sleepily, then yawned. His breathing slowed until it was deep and regular. 

Jaskier, on the other hand, was now wide awake. He’d slept in the same bed as Geralt before when they could only afford one room, they’d placed bedrolls side by side when it was cold, but this was different. It had never been Geralt’s idea, and Geralt had never pulled him up against his body like this, never thrown an arm around his waist like this. Never tucked Jaskier’s head under his chin like this.

It felt like – it felt divine, is what it felt like, as though he’d been granted a wish. Geralt’s body was so _warm_ next to his, firm and comforting and…

…And Jaskier’s body was starting to respond as though these were very different circumstances. He was suddenly very glad that he was on his side facing away from Geralt, and he tried to think of something – anything – to take his mind off his growing erection. 

Geralt shifted behind him, his arm twitching slightly, and then he sighed. “Yen.”

Jaskier’s breath hitched in his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut as he felt something shrivel up inside, not to mention his cock. It didn’t feel quite so warm in Geralt’s arms now, and he was suddenly even more tired than he had been, his exhaustion crashing over and through him along with the hurt.

Yen. Of course.


	5. Chapter 5

Jaskier had dreaded the long journey up the mountain. Geralt had been ready to refuse Borch’s offer – had already refused it, in fact – until he learned that Yennefer was also coming along on the dragon hunt. And if the hunt hadn’t involved a dragon – a _real_ dragon, not just a wyvern that someone had mistaken for one – then Jaskier might have considered not coming along himself. 

But the dwarves, Borch, and his attendants Téa and Véa had turned out to be surprisingly good company. The dwarves were hilariously crude and shifty but not vicious, unlike the Reavers, and Borch had an astonishing number of stories to share, even for someone his age. And Téa and Véa – well. They were unlike any women that Jaskier had ever encountered, and they were fascinating and strong and deadly and beautiful and most of all they were _not_ Yennefer of Vengerberg. 

And even Yennefer wasn’t so bad, because she was kept so busy trying to keep the ridiculous Sir Eyck out of trouble. Jaskier was honestly surprised that a man so incredibly stupid had made it to adulthood, but that was nobility for you. And Jaskier ought to know. 

It was Geralt whose company was less than pleasant. All right, he was definitely better than the Reavers, but they were the bottom of the barrel in every respect. Geralt wouldn’t stop brooding, or making eyes at Yennefer, or growling to himself whenever she and Sir Eyck retired to their tent every evening. Sir Eyck had put up a token protest about Yennefer’s honor that first night, but apparently he’d found a loophole in his code of chivalry. Or perhaps Yennefer had done something to him because she was bored. Jaskier had not forgotten the witch’s hobby of enchanted orgies during her time in Rinde. 

Jaskier had given up on trying to distract the Witcher, and instead was focused on his own pleasure, which at this moment was to be sitting at the fire, listening to Borch tell a story about the fall of an ancient kingdom in such detail that it was almost as though he’d been there. 

They were rudely interrupted by Sir Eyck, who apparently had not been content with merely placing the poor Hirikka’s head on a spike at the edge of their camp, but also, amazingly, intended to roast some of its meat over the fire. 

The stench of roasting Hirikka flesh put most of them off their dinner. The dwarves seemed to mind it the least, but they were shooting incredulous looks at the knight and muttering to each other in their own language. 

Jaskier was content not to partake in the rations this evening. His own appetite had been off since Eyck slaughtered the Hirikka. He’d never have drawn everyone’s attention to it if he’d known what would happen. He’d been spooked by the Hirikka when he didn’t know what it was, or that it was starving. It hadn’t even fought back when Eyck hacked it to pieces. 

“Um, I’m not sure I’d eat that, good sir,” Borch cautioned delicately as Eyck speared a chunk of meat on his dagger and lifted it to his mouth.

Eyck ignored him, ripping off a piece that was far too big to chew in polite company. Or even this company. 

“Knights never waste a kill,” Eyck said, managing to sound condescending even with his mouth full. “It’s precisely why I’ll make a great lord to Niedamir’s vassal state. A great knight must lead by example. For –“

“Kingdom and glory,” Véa interrupted, her teeth bared in what could possibly pass for a smile. 

“We know.” Téa added, not bothering to hide the way she rolled her eyes.

“My subjects will be the luckiest serfs in all the lands,” Eyck continued as if the women had not spoken. Jaskier got the impression that this was how he reacted to most women speaking to him. “Especially with the beautiful Yennefer as my mage.”

Yennefer gave him a brilliant smile, her violet eyes shining. “I cannot wait to serve you, my lord.”

Jaskier risked a quick glance at Geralt, who was staring at Eyck as a wolf stares at a rabbit. 

“How would you like to serve _me_ tonight, witch?” The Reavers’ leader, Boholt, joined them at the fire, pulling a piece of meat from the spit and eyeing it distrustfully. He leered at Yennefer, who looked coolly back at him with a bored expression on her face.

“Careful, Boholt,” Geralt growled.

“So the Witcher wants to play knight, too, eh?”

“No. She’s plenty able of murdering you herself.” Geralt said, and for some reason the small smile that appeared on his face as he spoke caused Jaskier’s empty stomach to form a painful knot.

Boholt chuckled, a raspy, almost guttural sound. “And you, bard? Are you up to serving me? Your face is almost as pretty. I’ll bet me and my boys could make you sing.”

Jaskier’s mouth went dry, but he flashed a tight smile at the Reaver. “I don’t do private concerts.” Boholt chuckled again.

Yarpen shifted next to the bard, leaning forward aggressively. “What’s so amusin’, you overgrown cock hair?”

Boholt’s eyes lingered on Jaskier before turning to the dwarf. “I’m just wondering who I will kill first. The monster, or the monster hunter.”

“Hmm.” Coming from Geralt, this ‘hmm’ was almost a laugh.

The Reaver scowled at the Witcher’s untroubled response and tossed the Hirikka meat at Yarpen, who looked as though he were ready to jump up and bite the man’s balls right off. Jaskier put a gentle hand on the dwarf’s arm, and he settled. Though his expression was still murderous.

“Oh dear,” Sir Eyck said, his face going green. “Um, I’m afraid I must take my leave.” He staggered to his feet and hurried off into the bushes, fumbling at the front of his trousers as he went.

The conversation drifted to politics, with the dwarves arguing over the worth of a vassal state that would be lucky to still exist in a decade. Nilfgaard was on the march, and they were burning their way through the south too quickly and easily for anyone’s comfort. Borch made a comment about how Nilfgaard’s zealotry might have been curbed with a stronger hand, and Yennefer excused herself shortly afterward, looking as though she were unusually discomfited. 

Jaskier played a few songs as the sun set fully, and the atmosphere around the fire was almost jolly. Geralt mostly kept his eyes on Yennefer’s tent, but he eventually retired to his bedroll without saying a word to anyone. 

The dwarves had included some hard liquor in their essentials. They claimed it was a sign of good fortune that it hadn’t been packed in Yarpen’s bag, the one that the Reavers had stolen at the trailhead where they’d left the horses. When they’d drunk enough to stop requesting songs, Jaskier took his own leave, wanting to take a piss before he bedded down. 

He avoided the area where Eyck had bolted to, and he almost – almost – felt sorry for the man. He could hear him in the dark, groaning in accompaniment to the noises of flatulence.

The bard followed a small game trail, hoping to get far enough away so that he wouldn’t have to listen to the sounds of another man’s intestinal agony. 

“Ah, I’m ready to be serviced, bard,” came a voice from the darkness. Jaskier froze, crouching slightly while trying to find where Boholt stood, his hand creeping down toward his boot for his knife.

A Reaver stepped onto the trail behind him and put a boot into his back, connecting with a kick that caused Jaskier to fall on his face. He spat out a mouthful of blood and dirt and looked up to see Boholt standing over him, wearing a nasty grin. 

Jaskier opened his mouth, fully prepared to demonstrate his vocal range as he screamed for help, but the Reaver behind him grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back, and Boholt had a knife to his throat.

“You’d not get one note out, songbird, before I gave you an extra smile.”

“And you would not live to even twitch your arm,” hissed a voice.

Jaskier rolled his eyes upward to see Téa, her sword drawn and its point placed delicately at the base of Boholt’s skull. The Reaver holding his head back suddenly yelled out in pain, and the hand pulling at his hair disappeared. He didn’t dare look behind him while Boholt’s knife was still touching his skin, but he knew that where Téa was, Véa would not be far.

“Leave, Reaver. You leave this quest, you leave this mountain. And you leave the bard alone.”

Boholt opened his hand, dropping the knife to the ground, and Téa backed up with him, allowing him space to leave the trail without removing her sword. 

“My ladies,” Jaskier croaked out when the noise of Boholt’s retreat had faded. “I am in your debt once again.”

“There is no debt to pay when the act was reward in itself,” Véa said, hooking a strong hand under his arm and helping him to his feet. “Though I would have preferred to kill them both.”

“Can’t say I disagree with you there,” the bard said. He stuck close to them on the way back to the camp, bidding them goodnight as they went to rejoin Borch.

He settled down in his bedroll after moving it closer to where Geralt slept, and laid so they were back to back.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

What was left of the party decided to defer the dwarves’ shortcut until the next day. The Reavers had taken Téa’s advice and left, but they’d gone on ahead, not back, and not before slitting Eyck’s throat while he shat. Jaskier hadn’t expected to be sorry to see the knight go, and he wasn’t – not for the knight’s sake. He was sorry because Geralt was now free to walk side by side with Yennefer, and to duck into her tent for the night. 

The camp fire was not far enough away for the rest of them to pretend that they had no idea what was going on in there.

“Will you sing for us, Master Bard?” Asked Borch, his kind old eyes twinkling in the firelight. 

Jaskier couldn’t help but preen a bit at that. Technically he was a master, but only in the eyes of Oxenfurt. The true measure of a master bard, however, was the staying power of their songs. And if Jaskier achieved that in any way, it would be because of Geralt. The thought made his heart ache a little more.

“Aye, please,” growled Yarpen. “Let us do something to drown them out.”

The melody came easily, Jaskier picking through the chords for a few bars before taking a breath.

_The fairer sex, they often call it_

_But her love's as unfair as a crook_

_It steals all my reason_

_Commits every treason_

_Of logic, with naught but a look_

_A storm breaking on the horizon_

_Of longing and heartache and lust_

_She's always bad news_

_It's always lose, lose_

_So tell me love, tell me love_

_How is that just?_

_But the story is this_

_She'll destroy with her sweet kiss_

_Her sweet kiss_

_But the story is this_

_She'll destroy with her sweet kiss_

_Her current is pulling you closer_

_And charging the hot, humid night_

_The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool_

_Better stay out of sight_

_I'm weak my love, and I am wanting_

_If this is the path I must trudge_

_I welcome my sentence_

_Give to you my penance_

_Garrotter, jury and judge_

_But the story is this_

_She'll destroy with her sweet kiss_

_Her sweet kiss_

Jaskier guessed that it was rather more mournful than something the dwarves would have preferred – ‘Fishmonger’s Daughter’ had been a huge hit with them the previous night. But Yarpen was unusually quiet, and the smallest of them, Yuri, had surreptitiously wiped at his eyes after the last chords of the lute had faded away.

“And who’s that song about, then?” Yarpen asked gruffly. “Sounds like the witch in yon tent.”

“Yes, exactly,” Jaskier said with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s like that whenever…whenever they’re together.”

Borch’s eyes were knowing. “Have you told Geralt who the song is about?”

“He’s never asked,” the bard’s tone was light, but when he tried to pluck out a short ditty his fingers were trembling and clumsy.

“I think you should. He’d want to know.”

“Ah, yes, that’s the thing, Lord Borch. I…I think he may know, and doesn’t want to.” Jaskier faked a yawn, settling his lute in its case. “He’s not stupid and I’m not subtle.”

He heard Borch’s thoughtful hum as he sought his bedroll.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

_“Dammit, Jaskier! Why is it that whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shoveling it?!”_

_“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take_ you _off my hands.”_

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

The downhill trip was a little easier on the lungs, but much harder on the knees, Jaskier discovered. He hadn’t stopped to rest too often on the way back, both because he wanted to be long gone by the time the rest of the party descended, and because the hills were still full of monsters and a little extra caution never hurt anyone. 

He was tired when he reached the trailhead, and as he walked past the Reavers’ horses he hoped that Niedamir’s people would at least look after them when news of their deaths reached them. He passed the dwarves’ two donkeys, and when he drew near the small corral on the far side of them he heard a familiar whinny. 

Roach came trotting up to the fence, tossing her head and kicking her heels a little on the way. Jaskier smiled fondly – she must have been bored out of her wits for the days they’d been away. 

“Dear girl, how are you? I’m afraid I have nothing to give you this time. There wasn’t much food on the trail, and definitely nothing that would appeal to a horse of discerning taste like yourself.” He put the flat of one hand on her blaze and stroked gently downward, scratching behind her ear with the other.

Geralt’s words echoed through his mind again, as they had dozens of times as he walked, but this time he couldn’t stop the tears from coming. Roach nosed at his shoulder as he cried, and he gently hugged her muzzle, resting his forehead against hers for a few minutes. 

“My apologies, Roach,” Jaskier sniffled, once he composed himself. “I certainly did not intend to weep all over you, that’s something that should be saved for a pitcher of ale, or a plate full of cakes, or the arms of a lover for the night. Or perhaps even all three at once.”

Roach let out a rumbling nicker, flicking her ears forward and back. 

“He’s not far behind me,” Jaskier promised, patting her neck. “He’ll let you out, give you a chance to stretch your legs.” He paused, feeling his throat go tight again. “He’ll take care of you, and I hope that it’s not presumptuous of me to ask you to please…please take care of him.”

He smiled sadly, then planted a kiss on Roach’s soft, velvety nose. 

“Goodbye, dear girl.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Can’t we stop for the night?” Ciri asked, looking longingly at the inn at the center of the town they were passing through.

“A hot meal and a real bed wouldn’t go amiss,” Yennefer said primly, reining in her horse next to Geralt’s. 

“Hmm.” Geralt’s tone was doubtful. “We still have at least two hours’ worth of light left.”

“And we’ve been going from dawn until dusk for the last five days straight.” Yennefer turned her violet eyes to meet gold. “She needs rest, Geralt. We all do.”

“Nilfgaard –“

“There’s an army between us and Nilfgaard. For now.”

“Hmm.” Geralt sighed. “All right.” He urged Roach forward, Ciri and Yennefer following behind him. He pressed his purse into Yennefer’s hands. “Get us some rooms. You,” he turned to Ciri. “Are Fiona when we’re with company, yes?”

“Yes,” Ciri said, smiling at him in a way that made him feel light, and at the same time terrified that she would be discovered and taken away from him.

“Go on,” he said, allowing a bit of affection to shine through.

Ciri grabbed Yennefer’s hand and pulled the sorceress into the inn.

Geralt led all three horses around the back, where he could hear and smell the other horses who were stabled. Ciri’s mount, a sweet-tempered dark brown mare, went obligingly into her stall, as did Roach. Yennefer’s cantankerous buckskin gelding was as prickly as his master, and required a firmer hand and a bribe of oats to go where he was put. 

He could hear people inside the common room of the inn, shouting and laughing – a rare enough sound these days, with Nilfgaard taking the north piece by piece. Refugees were flooding the towns in search of safety, and this one looked to be no exception. Makeshift camps had lined both sides of the road into town, and these days the price of a room for the night was steep. But after Yennefer had joined them, that had become a minor concern. Even people running from an invading army needed charms and elixirs.

As soon as Geralt’s foot crossed the threshold, he heard it. _That voice._ _The_ voice, soaring high and joyous and welcoming, encouraging the crowd to sing along with it.

Jaskier. Jaskier was here.

_“Fuck.”_

In the almost two years since the dragon hunt, Geralt had been in dozens, perhaps hundreds of cities, towns, and villages, and while he’d heard various of Jaskier’s songs many times it had never been him singing them. Never.

Two years was a long time, a very long time after harsh words and broken feeling. And it had never been _him._ Except this time…

This time.

Ciri was on her toes, her bright eyes fixed on the goings-on in the common room. Yennefer, standing beside her, caught his eye as he stood frozen in the doorway, saw his indecision and snapped her fingers down at her side as if calling a dog to heel. 

Fuck. _That._

Geralt executed an about face and stalked out of the inn, nearly walking right over a few people who had been waiting for him to move so that they could go in. He drew his suddenly foul mood around him like a cloak and it warded people off, just as it had before Jaskier had danced into his life and embarked on a mission to improve his reputation.

“Roach,” he growled after entering the stable. “You and I are camping tonight.”

The chestnut mare flicked her ears flat against her head and deliberately turned back to her hay net, pulling another mouthful out and chewing pointedly. 

“We’ll take it with us,” Geralt said briskly, lifting the saddle off the beam that served as the stall door. Roach sidestepped him as he approached and tossed her head, clearly refusing to cooperate.

Geralt grabbed the side of her halter, and the look in her eyes turned downright fierce. Roach jerked her head suddenly, pulling out of Geralt’s hold, then turned. At first the Witcher thought she was lining up a kick, which she’d only tried once when he’d first got her. Instead, Roach backed up, hitting him with her rump and pushing back until he was pinned against the wall by a horse’s arse.

“Fuck, Roach!” Geralt gave her a light thump. “Leave off!”

She turned to look at him, unimpressed, then snagged another mouthful of hay out of the net. 

_Geralt._

Yennefer’s voice ghosted through the stable.

_Stop being a coward and come inside._

Geralt clenched his hands into fists and let his forehead drop onto Roach’s smooth hide. “Fuck.”

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Jaskier was almost, but not quite, as Geralt remembered him. The Witcher had entered the common room and immediately joined Yennefer and Ciri at the back, keeping his hood up and slouching slightly to disguise his height.

 _Coward,_ Yennefer mouthed at him, while clapping along to ‘Fishmonger’s Daughter.’

Geralt scowled at her.

Jaskier was in front of the hearth, moving around a small open patch of floor. He was dressed in a faded green doublet – not one that Geralt recognized – and dark brown breeches. Much more subdued than his usual colors, the work not as fine. The room was positively packed with people, most of them with their eyes fixed on the bard. There were even people on the second floor, leaning against the railing and stomping their feet in time with the music. 

Geralt noted that Jaskier’s movements were a little stiff. That there were threads of silver starting at his temples. That there were lines on his face which were now more pronounced. But he played and sang as beautifully as he ever did, drawing in the crowd in the magical way that he had.

The people clapped and shouted and called out requests for songs after Jaskier finished ‘Fishmonger’ and took a few gulps out of a mug set on the mantle. After humming a few bars of ‘Her Sweet Kiss,’ he began the song in earnest, and the crowed quieted somewhat, this being a more somber song than the one about fucking with a puck.

“I’ve seen him play before,” Ciri pulled Geralt down so that she could whisper to him excitedly. “He came and played at court a few times for my birthday when I was growing up. Please can I say hello when he’s done?”

Geralt hummed and blinked. Jaskier had returned to Calanthe’s court? He’d never mentioned it.

But then, Geralt had made it clear that he wasn’t interested in hearing anything about his Child Surprise.

Jaskier started on the third verse, and looked directly at Geralt where he stood while singing “I’m weak, my love, and I’m wanting.”

He’d seen him. He’d known he was there.

_Fuck._

Jaskier’s eyes flicked to Yennefer and back to Geralt, never pausing in his singing, and he turned to face another part of the crowd while repeating the refrain. A few people threw some coins at his feet, but not many – times were hard, after all. But everyone showed their appreciation with applause and cheers.

“What now, good people?” The bard called out after taking another drink. The air was suddenly filled with suggestions, members of the crowd speaking and shouting on top of each other, and even Geralt found it difficult to pinpoint who was saying what.

A voice on the opposite side of the room cried out, loudly. “Song of the White Wolf!”

“Ah,” Jaskier said, his smile slipping just for a moment. “If that’s the one, it’ll be my last song for the evening, are you sure?”

“White Wolf! White Wolf!” The crowd chanted.

“If you insist.” Jaskier was beaming again. “For this song, I shall require some assistance.”

A few of the people closest to him instantly raised their hands, shouting and begging for the bard to pick them. Jaskier paced in front of them as solemnly as a general inspecting his troops, and to Geralt’s surprise he completely passed over a few comely young ladies and men – exactly who Geralt would have expected him to pick. 

Jaskier stopped in front of a tall, thin woman, her steel-gray hair pulled back into a severe bun. “Dear lady, I believe you have the right boots for the job.”

“They’s hobnail,” the woman said.

“Perfect.” Jaskier leaned in and whispered a question into the woman’s ear, and she nodded, stepping forward into the bard’s informal performing space.

“Like this,” Jaskier said, and he stomped his foot on the wooden floor in a slow, measured rhythm. The room instantly fell silent. The woman daintily raised the front of her skirts and matched him, keeping the rhythm steady when Jaskier switched his attention to his lute.

This song did not begin with the same kind of plucking that was common in Jaskier’s other songs. No, he struck the chords firmly and let them echo throughout the room, in time with the heavy beats being marked by his partner.

It felt…old. Not quite what it should have been – pipes and drums came more to mind, but Jaskier and his partner were doing an excellent job of mimicking the feel. It called to memories long since buried at the back of Geralt’s mind, made the blood thrum in his veins.

Jaskier began to sing.

_The call of the White Wolf is loudest at the dawn_

_The call of a stone heart is broken and alone_

_Born of Kaer Morhen_

_Born of no love_

_The song of the White Wolf is cold as driven snow_

_Bear not your eyes upon him lest steel or silver draw_

_Lay not your breast against him or lips to ease his roar_

_For the song of the White Wolf will always be sung alone_

_For the song of the White Wolf will always be sung alone_

_Cast not your eyes upon him, lest he kiss you with his sword_

_Lay not your heart against him or your lips to ease his roar_

_For the song of the White Wolf will always sing alone_

_For the song of the White Wolf will always sing alone_

Geralt felt breathless as Jaskier’s high, clear voice filled the room. The melody was simple but there was depth to it, and it showed Jaskier’s range as it played out as a kind of call and response to himself. 

And the song wasn’t over when Jaskier reached the end of the lyrics. During the last “alone,” he made eye contact with the woman keeping the rhythm and raised his lute slightly, and then on the next downbeat he changed to a faster tempo.

The old woman began dancing a treble jig in the style of northern step-dancing, her hard-soled boots beating out a counterpoint to the suddenly complex and rapid plucking that Jaskier was wringing out of the lute. The bard’s eyes were closed in concentration, and the two sounds wove in and out and around each other, and it got the crowd clapping along with the faster rhythm as it built up in a crescendo.

Jaskier struck the final chord and the woman abruptly stopped dancing, holding a pose with one foot flat and the other toed behind it. Both of them were breathing hard, and Jaskier grabbed her hand and raised it above their heads, to the cheers of the crowd. The bard turned to her, brought her hand to his lips and kissed it, mouthing a few words that Geralt could not make out but that he assumed was some kind of thanks.

The color was already high in the woman’s cheeks from the exertion of the dance, but it deepened at the kiss, and she patted his cheek before awkwardly rejoining her people in the crowd. A few more coins fell at Jaskier’s feet as he turned and finished off the contents of the mug, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his doublet.

“Come on,” Ciri said excitedly, pushing her way through the crowd. 

“You go on,” Yennefer nodded to Geralt. “He may have some things to say to you.”

Geralt grunted, not trusting himself to speak. He didn’t feel like he was ready for words yet, after that song. He pushed off from the wall and followed Ciri, shooting ‘fuck off’ looks at anyone who got too close or looked too long.

Ciri went right up to Jaskier, who was just tucking his meager earnings into the front of his doublet. She stopped suddenly, at a loss for the proper protocol for the situation and wary of defaulting to her court manners. 

Jaskier looked at her curiously, and then his blue eyes widened in recognition. He looked up to see Geralt behind her. “Gods above, you found each other.”

The bard swept an elegant bow, and Ciri made a small noise of protest. Jaskier smiled and leaned in conspiratorially when he rose. “Not to worry, no one will think twice about it, coming from me. I’m known for my…flamboyance.”

“It’s – I’m Fiona,” Ciri said hurriedly.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you here, Fiona,” Jaskier said formally, but then his face softened. “You look very much like your mother. My sorrow for your loss.” A statement which encompassed a multitude of losses.

“Jaskier, I –“ Geralt began, but cut himself off, unsure what to say.

“Geralt,” Jaskier nodded to him. “Congratulations.”

“I – what?” 

“I’m glad she’s with you now. Now she’s safe, Yennefer has a child, and you have Yennefer. Destiny finally worked out in your favor. For all of you.”

“Yennefer?” Geralt repeated, perplexed. “I don’t –“

“Goodbye, Geralt.” Jaskier slung his lute over his back and deftly slipped through the crowd, weaving expertly through the press.

“Geralt?” Ciri looked up at him, her small brow furrowed in concern.

“Go to Yennefer. Don’t leave her side. I’ll be back,” Geralt growled. He pushed his way through, leaving shocked whispers of ‘Geralt of Rivia’ and ‘the White Wolf’ in his wake, glancing back once to make sure that Ciri had followed his orders.

He took a good long sniff outside, trying to determine which way Jaskier had gone. There was a hint of spruce, wood polish and sweat… Now that he had it again, he knew how much he had missed it. 

Geralt followed his nose to the stables, and he stepped lightly, not wanting to give Jaskier the chance to run off again. He craned his head around the door.

Jaskier was standing in front of Roach’s stall, scratching her under the chin until she playfully shoved against him with her nose. “Dear girl, what happened to your lovely manners?”

“I’ve been a bad influence on her,” Geralt rumbled, stepping inside.

The bard jumped, reaching instinctively at his sleeve as he turned. He relaxed only slightly when he saw Geralt. “I just wanted to see her again before I left.”

“And where are you going?” Geralt leaned against a post, crossing his arms in front of his chest. 

“North. The next town. And the one after that. Just like everyone. Granted, I wasn’t planning on leaving this one quite so suddenly, but –“ Jaskier shrugged.

“But what?”

Jaskier’s mouth curled up in a humorless half-smile. “Giving you life’s one blessing.”

Geralt’s gut twisted with guilt and regret. “I didn’t mean that, Jaskier. What I said. I was…I was angry, and felt like I had nothing, and so I said things that made that true. When you left, I truly had _nothing._ Only the possibility of my Child Surprise. I’m sorry.”

“Well.” Jaskier swallowed hard, looking at the floor. 

“That song…” Geralt said suddenly. 

“What song?” Asked Jaskier, in a tone which indicated that he knew perfectly well what song. When Geralt didn’t answer right away, the bard gave a slight chuckle. “Come on, Witcher, tell me what you thought. Three words or less.”

“I loved it.”

“Ah, that’s – you what?” Jaskier’s jaw fell open, and Geralt felt a sudden impulse to close the bard’s mouth with a kiss. He didn’t, though. He wasn’t sure he’d earned that yet.

“It was a good song, Jaskier, and you sang it well.”

“It was never meant to –“ Jaskier faltered. “I wasn’t going to sing it in front of you. Anyway, it seems as though it’s a bit outdated.”

“Outdated?” 

“Yes, well, you’re not alone anymore, are you.” It wasn’t a question. The bard fiddled with the strap of his lute, scuffing his toe in the straw on the stable floor.

There was a lot that Geralt tended to miss about human behavior, particularly all of the stuff around their emotions. But something finally clicked into place for him here.

“Jaskier, Yennefer and I aren’t…together.”

“Come on, Geralt,” Jaskier huffed. “I saw her in the inn –“

“Ciri needs training. Training that I can’t give her, and I’ll not ship her off to Aretuza and the Brotherhood. And Yennefer and I are entangled in some way through the djinn’s magic – which is exactly why things between us have changed. Neither of us can trust the feelings that we had.”

Jaskier’s brow furrowed. 

“What I’m saying is that you don’t need to leave for her sake, or for mine,” Geralt said, taking a few slow steps forward. “I’ll not stop you if you have to leave for your own. But I’d have you here, if that’s agreeable to you.”

“Ah.” Jaskier retreated until his back hit the stall, and he swallowed hard. “Now when you say you’d have me –“

Geralt kept advancing, reaching out to smooth back a lock of Jaskier’s hair, and the bard closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. “I mean that I’d have you, have you not because of any Destiny bullshit or twisted magical fates, but because I’m tired of having nothing. I’m tired of wanting nothing. And I want you. If you want me.”

“If –“ Jaskier scoffed, then surged forward, bringing their lips together in a kiss and tentatively sneaking his hands around Geralt’s shoulders, as though he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

Geralt’s hands wrapped securely around Jaskier’s waist and pulled him close, their bodies flush together, and Jaskier let out a moan that was swallowed up in the kiss. The Witcher let out a low growl and shifted his attention to Jaskier’s neck, pressing a thigh between his legs and tightening his grip when he felt the other man getting hard.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whined. “Oh, that’s really good – wow, I – hang on, how are you – _Roach!”_

Geralt jerked away in confusion, then actually started to laugh when he saw Roach lipping at the side of Jaskier’s head.

“Roach!” The bard gasped indignantly. “You’ve – you got slobber on my _ear!”_

“I was going to do that,” Geralt rumbled in amusement.

“You nasty horse, see if I bring you any treats tomorrow!” In spite of his words, Jaskier reached out give the mare a scratch behind the ear.

“Perhaps we should continue this elsewhere.”

“Yes, perhaps we shou – _Geralt!_ Whoa, Geralt!” Jaskier squeaked as Geralt unceremoniously picked him up and threw him over his shoulder, much like he’d done when the bard had been suffering from the effects of the djinn’s magic.

Geralt ignored the stares of the people in the common room as he marched up to where Yennefer and Ciri were sitting, half-finished meals in front of them.

“Key,” Geralt grunted.

Yennefer gave him the key to one of the rooms she’d taken, trying to fight a smile, violet eyes sparkling with amusement. Geralt turned toward the stairs and Jaskier lifted his head, showing his crimson face and ears and giving Yennefer and Ciri a little wave before they disappeared in the crowd.

Geralt set Jaskier on his feet as soon as they entered the room, and nodded approvingly when he saw a fire already lit. He started undoing the buttons on his shirt.

“Wow, straight to it, then, um –“ Jaskier stood next to the bed, looking at his Witcher with wide blue eyes.

“You’ve seen me naked before, Jask.”

Jaskier raised his eyebrows at the nickname but didn’t comment any further. He fumbled at the ties on his doublet, folding it up carefully before setting it on the side table with the wash basin. He did the same with his breeches, and was just pulling his shirt over his head when he heard Geralt’s sharp intake of breath.

“Oh,” the bard said, suddenly embarrassed. He unbuckled the knife sheath that he had strapped to his left wrist. “Right. We are in a _war,_ Geralt. It chews everything up and spits it out. Even bards.” 

But Geralt hadn’t been looking at Jaskier’s knife. The Witcher placed his large hands on Jaskier’s shoulders and turned him slightly, amber eyes focused on the angry red scar that ran across Jaskier’s side and down over his hip. 

“Did I hurt you, carrying you like that?”

“No!” Jaskier shook his head. “No, it’s pretty much healed, it just pulls a little. Aches in cold weather, that sort of thing.”

“Hmm.” Geralt circled around the other man, pausing and running his fingers in a feather-light touch over the thin white marks on Jaskier’s back. “How –?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jaskier said firmly. 

“It does,” Geralt growled.

“But not tonight.” Jaskier reached for Geralt’s hand and squeezed it. “Not tonight.”

Jaskier’s heart pounded as Geralt wrapped his strong arms around him from behind, lavishing attention once again on his neck, and he tipped his head back on Geralt’s shoulder, reaching up to grab a fistful of white hair. The Witcher hummed when he gave a slight tug, then bit down on the meat of Jaskier’s shoulder, one of his hands drifting downward to wrap around his cock.

“Oh fuck, Geralt!” Jaskier moaned, and the low chuckle that Geralt let out in response _did_ things to him.

They fell together on the bed, grappling with each other until Geralt rolled on top of Jaskier, pinning the bard’s wrists to the mattress. 

“Yes, yes, you’re a big scary Witcher, you’ve made your point,” Jaskier huffed, his face flushed and hair disheveled. 

“Hmm, no, I don’t think I have,” Geralt murmured, pressing his hips down and grinding their cocks together. He chuckled again and rubbed his stubbly cheek against Jaskier’s when the bard let out a needy whine. 

“If you don’t get your ‘point’ inside me right now this is going to be over before it really begins,” Jaskier warned. His cheeks warmed further when Geralt turned unblinking golden eyes on him.

“Is that what you want?”

“I won’t beg,” Jaskier said, with dignity.

Geralt swiveled his hips down again.

 _“Ah,_ all right, _please,_ fine, I’ll beg!”

“I have oil in my bag,” Geralt said.

“The same bag in which you carry all your potions?”

“Yes.”

“And have you started labeling them?”

“…No.”

Jaskier grinned. “Then I’m going to let you look for it, and just trust that you don’t accidentally grab something that will, I don’t know, set my arse on fire.”

Geralt laughed and heaved himself up, not missing the surprised and pleased expression on his bard’s face. He rummaged through his saddlebag until he found the vial he was looking for, then returned to the bed, taking a moment to enjoy the sight of Jaskier laying back, legs spread, giving himself a few lazy strokes.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” the bard murmured, blue eyes raking up and down Geralt’s body appreciatively. 

The Witcher squinted at him skeptically.

“It’s true,” Jaskier defended, sitting up a little as Geralt settled between his legs. 

“You’re a romantic, bard,” Geralt scoffed, running a hand softly up the inside of Jaskier’s thigh.

Jaskier sucked in a breath. “I am, I admit it. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“Stop talking, Jask.”

“Make me.” Jaskier was smiling slightly, his head tilted back in a challenge.

Geralt growled and leaned forward, snaking a hand around the back of Jaskier’s neck and pulling him forward for a kiss. The bard gave as good as he got, licking inside his mouth when Geralt opened it in invitation and bringing his teeth into play.

He fumbled the stopper out of the vial with one hand, having had plenty of practice at it on his hunts, and spread some of the oil around on his fingers. Jaskier gasped when he felt Geralt’s touch and spread his legs even wider. 

Geralt stretched him unhurriedly, dipping first one and then two fingers in and out, probing gently until –

“Holy fuck, Geralt!” Jaskier’s whole body jerked, but Geralt had a firm grip on his hip.

The Witcher smirked and continued the movement of his fingers, leaning down and taking the tip of Jaskier’s cock in his mouth. Jaskier groaned and instinctively gathered a fistful of snowy white hair, then seemed to remember himself and hastily let go.

Geralt gave a disapproving hum and grabbed Jaskier’s hand, firmly placing it back on his head. The bard’s eyes were wide, but soft, a tender expression translating to the more gentle movement of his fingers through Geralt’s hair. 

“Oh, gods, Geralt, do it now, please,” Jaskier whimpered, trying to control the trembling in his lower body, aching with need.

“Hmm.” Geralt hummed again before pulling off, causing Jaskier to squirm, pressing the other man’s fingers deeper inside him.

“Oil,” Jaskier demanded, panting and holding his hand out.

Geralt obliged, drizzling the rest of it into the bard’s palm. Jaskier reached down and grasped Geralt’s cock, stroking it slowly from root to tip, working the oil all over and twisting his wrist on the upstroke. Geralt permitted himself a groan, then grasped Jaskier’s waist, pulling him down the bed a little, removing his hand and twining their fingers together.

Jaskier made the most beautiful noise when Geralt lined himself up and pushed inside, both of them reveling in the sensation as Geralt started to move in earnest. It seemed that there were no circumstances in this life which would keep the bard silent for long, but Geralt found that he very much enjoyed being the direct cause of all the noise for once. 

“Fuck, right there,” Jaskier gasped as Geralt adjusted his angle, one fist clenching on the bedclothes and the other in Geralt’s hair as he threw his head back. Geralt took that as an invitation to put his mouth on the column of his throat, kissing softly in some places, leaving small bruises blooming in others. Jaskier moaned and fisted his cock as Geralt increased the speed and power of his thrusts, and he came with a cry, spilling his release onto his stomach.

Geralt caged his bard in his arms, tucking his face into the side of his neck while he chased his own orgasm. He felt Jaskier’s tongue and teeth at the hinge of his jaw, and clever, lute-calloused fingers dancing over his skin until they found one of his nipples. Geralt bared his teeth as Jaskier toyed with him, rolling it between his fingers with increasing pressure until he suddenly pinched down hard. 

_“Fuck,”_ growled Geralt, snapping his hips forward, burying himself deeply. He nosed at Jaskier’s hair, breathing in his scent and letting out a rumble of satisfaction as it mingled with his own.

“Such a Wolf,” Jaskier laughed breathlessly.

“Come to Kaer Morhen with us.”

“What?” Jaskier pulled back in order to look Geralt in the eyes.

“It’s where we’re heading for the winter. It should be safe for Ciri, she’ll have Yennefer and Vesemir to learn from. She can stay in one place for a few months.”

“She’ll have you to learn from, too,” Jaskier said, tracing Geralt’s jaw with his fingers.

“And you, if you’ll come.”

Jaskier snorted. “You don’t need to pretend that I have anything useful to offer, Geralt, though I thank you for the effort.”

Geralt raised himself up on his arms, looking down at the bard intently, golden eyes searching. “I’m an ass,” he said. “If you don’t know your value.”

The look of confusion on Jaskier’s face made the Witcher’s gut twist with guilt again, but he resolved to fix this. He wasn’t quite sure how, but he was damn well going to try.

“I’ll come,” Jaskier said finally. “I’m sure a handful of crusty Witchers will make just as good an audience as the one I had tonight.”

Geralt snorted. “I…didn’t think of that.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier leaned up and kissed him. “My main concern for about a year now has been to keep myself fed and out of the war as much as possible. I haven’t had the chance to write anything new in a good long while. I’d be glad to start composing again.”

“Hmm, well. Good.”

“And if –“ Jaskier nudged Geralt off of him so that he could get up and wet down a rag in the wash basin. “You find yourself growing irritated with me after spending months together in a confined space, just remember that you have only yourself to blame.” Jaskier tossed another rag onto Geralt’s chest so that he could clean himself up.

“Come here, bard,” Geralt growled, and Jaskier scrambled to obey, wrapping himself around the Witcher’s scarred body like it was molded for him. Geralt lay awake for a little while after Jaskier dozed off, snoring softly in his arms. It was the first time in a long time, he mused, that he wasn’t afraid of waking up alone.


End file.
